


You're Not My First Smackhead, Sherlock Holmes

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, Graphic description of drug use, Heroin, Mrs. Hudson's first smackhead, Mrs. Hudson's son, Original Character Death(s), Overdosing, POV Frankie Hudson, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 04, Underage Drug Use, Why Mrs. Hudson never mentions her family, You’re not my first smackhead Sherlock Holmes, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: “You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.” She’d said it in a moment of anguish, stressed at watching the young man she thought of as a son tear himself apart with a combination she could only guess.This is the tale of Mrs. Hudson's first smackhead. Frankie Hudson, the apple of his mother's eye, was brilliant, talented, isolated and lonely - until he made a friend who introduced Frankie to the cornucopia of drugs that were available in Miami in the late 1980s.  While he suspected his father made their wealth from the drug trade, Frankie was kept protected from the Miami party scene. But early admission to University of Miami, and obtaining his drivers license, opened up a new world to the sheltered genius.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DulcimerGecko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/gifts).



> This fic contains detailed description of drug use. Please don't read if it will trigger you.
> 
> I intentionally use casual voice when writing, beginning sentences with 'and' and 'but' and breaking other rules whenever I feel it ads to the tone of the story. I know it's not grammatically correct. But I also enjoy the 'transnational' aspect of fanfic.  
> (see what I did there? ;) )

“You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.” 

She’d said it in a moment of anguish, stressed at watching the young man she thought of as a son tear himself apart with a combination she could only guess. Smack, yes. But the array of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table told her it was more. Amphetamine -  home cooked - and the shady young man hanging about the place told her that cocaine and other street drugs were also in the mix.

“You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock, strung out beyond comprehending her words, wouldn’t remember her venting and there was no one else around to hear. She’d done what she had to do to disarm him to keep the neighborhood safe. Then she’d strong armed him down the stairs and into the boot of her car; the way he’d stumbled obediently had broken her heart more than anything else she’d seen in the past few weeks. 

After dumping him on John and Molly with orders to save him and sober him up, Mrs. Hudson had driven home sedately, made herself tea, sat at her small kitchen table - and fell completely apart.

“You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.” 

~*~

Frank Hudson was a small man, with a small man’s complex, and Martha was even smaller so it was no surprise that their son, Francis Junior aka Frankie, was a slight, small boy. In the rough and tumble world that was the Miami drug scene of the late 80s, Frankie had been a fish out of water. In the exclusive gated community where they lived, the other boys his age played football and hacky sack in their irrigated backyards while their bored mothers worked on their tans and watched from pool decks. Frankie’s creamy white skin resisted tanning so any time in the hot south Florida sun just set off another burn-peel-burn-peel cycle. 

He prefered to spend his time reading, playing the grand piano in the palatial living room, or listening to classical music. At the exclusive day school he attended, he coped by always carrying his Walkman, ear phones firmly attached to his ears at all times except during class. His backpack contained an assortment of classical, folk and punk cassettes along with books for his advanced studies classes. 

The other boys mostly ignored him, which was fine with Frankie. Until they reached high school, and Frankie’s grades propelled him into classes with upperclassmen when even the Freshman level advanced studies classes proved inadequate to actually teach him anything. The other Freshman kids teased him with names like Dougie Howser and Spock, while the upperclassmen called him Kid and Brainiac. And as the years progressed and the school ran out of classes to offer Frankie, Big Frank used his considerable influence in local matters to get his son admitted to University of Miami at 16. 

The future seemed unlimited for the prodigy of both academics and music. At first Frankie blossomed in the university environment, sailing with ease through his first semester with a 4.0. He hit the first road bump of his life during his second semester. Despite his superior academic prowess, the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles required him to take a Drivers Education course just like any other 16 year old wanna be driver. Martha enrolled him in a drivers school close to UM so that he could walk over after his college classes ended. 

Drivers Ed class was the first time Frankie had really interacted with teens outside the rarified air of Coral Gables. Even UM was in Coral Gables. While there, he came into contact with young men and women from mostly upper class families. Besides, he interacted very little with his classmates, keeping mainly to himself and feeling painfully self conscious of his youth next to the coeds beside him. 

But the Drivers Ed course was open to all - gang bangers, rich kids, punks, average white kids. Frankie sat in the last row with his Walkman and a paperback copy of _ A Prayer For Owen Meany _ and tried to go unnoticed. That worked until the first break, when the students filed out of the stuffy room, down a hallway and out a double glass door onto a concrete patio with two metal picnic tables. 

Taking a seat at the far table, Frankie buried his head in his book until he felt an elbow prod his ribs. He looked up, startled, to find a boy smiling at him while he held a join in his direction. “Wanna hit?” the teen asked in a friendly manner.

He really didn’t. Frankie had deduced that his father had a hand in the booming drug trade in Dade County, but his parents were also strict and lectured him about the evils of drugs nearly nonstop. Hypocritical, yes, but their words had planted a fear of drugs in Frankie that ran deep. On the other hand, this was the first time another teen had reached out to Frankie in friendship. This boy didn’t know Frankie from Adam. He didn’t know Frankie was a superbrain or that he’d never really had a friend. So Frankie smiled slightly and replied, “Sure. Thanks, man.”

He’d watched enough episodes of  _ Miami Vice  _ to know how to handle a joint. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, Frankie took a small hit and handed it back. The teen smiled and gestured toward his chest. “Joe,” he said in a friendly voice before taking a hit.  

“Frankie.” 

Joe nodded and smiled, then passed over the joint again. “Nice to meet you, Frankie. This class is shit. I been driving since I was 12. But my mom says I have to do the class and get my drivers license before I can drive her car. It’s bullshit.” Joe grumbled in the way of all teens, using the trials of his life to build rapport with another teen.

“That’s rough,” Frankie replied. He’d observed other teens in this ritual before. “I haven’t even asked my mom about driving her car. She signed me up for this this class so I guess she’ll let me use her car.”

Their classmates started to shuffle toward the door so Gerardo carefully ground out the joint on the leg of the picnic table. They walked down the hallway together. Frankie expected Joe to resume his former seat but instead, Joe took the chair beside Frankie’s and there, in a small stuffy room in a ratty office building in Miami, Frankie’s first friendship was born.

~*~

At first Martha was thrilled that Frankie had a friend so she squelched her uncomfortable feelings that came up when she met Joe. He lived in Miramar, which at one time had been a nice suburb but had gone downhill with the advent of the drug trade in Miami. She felt like a hypocrite for even thinking it since she suspected her husband had a hand in the very trade that had dragged Miramar down. It was more than that - something about Joe just didn’t sit right with Marth. But her son was a university student and well on his way toward driving on his own, so Martha felt is was time to loosen the apron strings. A bright boy like Frankie would surely show discernment when picking friends

Once Frankie got his drivers license, and Big Frank bought him a late model used Sunbird convertible, he began to spend more and more time away from home. He told his parents he needed more and more time at the UM library, or that he’d been invited to events for the university Robotics team, or that he was staying after class for a UM basketball game. Martha worried, as a mother does, at her not-quite-17-years-old son spending endless hours away from home and out of contact. Car phones were becoming more popular, but if even Big Frank didn’t have one in his Cadillac Eldorado, it would be hard to convince him to install one in Frankie’s Sunbird.

Evenings on campus became late nights on campus and, once Frankie turned 17 and started his second year at University of Miami, overnight stays. Frankie asked his parents to let him move into the UM dorms but they resisted, telling him that he was still underage.

~*~

A friend like Joe opened up a new world to Frankie. Not only a world of fraternity, with friends his own age to hang out with and girls his own age with whom to flirt, but an entry into popular culture than just watching television had never given him. Frankie began to dress more casually and buy the latest Air Jordans with his allowance. The khakis and pressed shirts he’d worn since his private school days gave way to Calvin Klein jeans and Levis jackets, zippered tracksuits and pastel jeans. He let his hair grow into a shaggy cut, longer behind his ears. His parents tut-tutted his new choices but his friends gave him two thumbs up when they hung out at the mall on Saturday nights.

Joe also introduced him to the preferred teen vices of the day - weed, speed, cocaine, and later Ecstasy when he began sleeping with the girls in Joe’s crowd. The Miramar crowd was  _ fun _ . Frankie felt truly  _ liked  _ by his peers for the first time since early elementary school. And being accepted by Joe’s friends made it easier for Frankie to make friends at UM. Soon Frankie found himself invited to campus house parties, dormitory parties, and even fraternity parties where beer flowed freely and drugs changed hands just as freely.   

Between Joe’s crowd and campus life, Frankie found himself flying high most nights of the week. His quick mind undulled during class periods, Frankie managed to remain at the top of his class, living a type of double life: brainiac by day, party animal by night. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to any reader who lives in Miramar, FL. I based my description of that Miami suburb on information from a friend who lived there during the period during which this fic is set.
> 
>  
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: iriswallpaper.tumblr.com


End file.
